Here Without You (27 page)

‘Should I try it on now?’ he asks, one eyebrow quirking up.

Good golly, he’s hot, and I’d love for him to strip off his shirt and not put
anything
back on. But we’re not done.

‘I have one other thing to give you.’

He pushes the shirt and wrapping materials to the side while I reach into my bag and pull out the small velvet box. His eyes flick from the box to my face, and he doesn’t move.

‘What you said the other day – you were right. I’ve been disconnecting myself. I haven’t believed my parents know me. I haven’t believed that God cares about me, or my sister.
I haven’t been sure he exists at all. And I haven’t had faith in a future with you.’

I take a deep breath and hold the box out to him. He swallows, jaw clenched, and opens his hand. When I place the box in his palm, he closes his fingers over it.

I lick my lips and take a deep breath of my own. ‘You said you have faith in us. You told me to come to you when I was ready to be fearless. The truth is, I don’t know if I can be fearless. I’ve lost myself, Reid, and I’m still so scared. But I’m ready to try. If you still want to, I’m ready.’

He blinks, stunned, and opens the box. Taking my left hand from my lap, he pulls the ring from its silk-sheathed slot and slides it on to my finger. The dark blue stone and surrounding baguettes fill the space below my knuckle, and somehow, it fits perfectly. He leans closer, his lips a whisper over mine at first, and then he kisses me deeper, gathering me closer, our breaths mingled and shared until we’re both winded, chests heaving like we’ve each run a mile uphill.

He stares at my hand in his for a long minute, his thumb caressing the edges of the band on my finger, before his eyes lift to mine. ‘When do you have to be home?’ His voice is low and tinged with an ache that echoes back from my heart.

‘I told them I might be a little late …’ I say.

Before I can say another word, he grabs my right hand, jumps up and strides through the house to his bedroom. He programmes an intercom system inside his door – the display reads:
River’s room: ON
. ‘I can hear him; he can’t hear us,’ he says.

Elbowing the door shut, he tugs me into the circle of his arms.

The second his mouth crashes into mine, I’m on fire. Engulfed. I open my mouth and he kisses me harder as I press against him, locking my arms around his neck. His hands are hard on my back, fingers digging in, sliding down to my hips, gripping me tight as his tongue thrusts deep into my mouth, stoking the fire at my core until it’s raging through me.

One knee slips up the outside of his thigh and he immediately grasps my leg, wrenches it higher and around his waist. As the other follows, he lifts me effortlessly, and I hook my ankles at his low back. Cushioning my head with his hand, he slams me into the wall. His lips leave mine with a loud
pop
, sliding down my jaw, raining kisses down my neck as I’m gulping in air. Seizing handfuls of his hair, I pull him back to my mouth, kissing him urgently, our tongues tangling.

Shoving my tank up, his hands cup my breasts, thumbs teasing beneath the smooth satin, and I can’t get close enough to him. Without his hands bracing my weight, I’ve slipped just low enough to feel him hard against me, too many layers between us. Panting, he unhooks my front-closure bra and shoves the cups to the sides, and despite my determined muteness so far, I cry out when he sucks a nipple into his mouth, hard. Arching into him, I bite my lip until it stings, and I’m rewarded with his growl as he swings me around, strides towards the bed and drops me on to it.

I’m transfixed by the sight of him jerking his shirt over his head without bothering to unfasten the buttons. He slings
it to the ground, inside out, as I shrug out of my tank and bra. Stepping up and unzipping my shorts, his dark gaze is on my face. My heart thuds as I return his stare and begin unbuttoning his jeans slowly, brazenly.

Seconds later, he’s tossing my shorts to the floor and pressing me to the mattress. As soon as our mouths meet again, my heart cracks open, and the memories are a tidal wave, beginning with that first spellbinding kiss in the pink closet. He seems heavier, bigger, harder all over than he was even those few months ago, but his beautiful face is still all angled symmetry, except for his full mouth and the thick, curving lashes ringing his dusk-blue eyes.

His kiss is the same – hot and demanding, but never stingy. Perfect.
I’m good for you even if you don’t know it yet
, he told me, and then he waited months for me to know it. To believe it. To stop doubting him.

Tears seep from the corners of my eyes to snake into my hair, and I hold on and kiss him back, measure for measure. ‘I love you,’ I say, finally, and he freezes and pulls back, watching me. ‘I love you,’ I repeat, ‘and I’m so scared, Reid. But I have faith in us.’

Fingertips stroking the edges of my face, he shifts his weight from me, pulling me into his embrace. ‘That’s what faith is, right?’ he says. ‘Believing in what can’t be known? Fall into my arms, Dori. I’ll catch you, every time, and I won’t let go.’ His lips brush over mine, feather-light. ‘Say it again, please. I’ve waited so long to hear you say it.’

‘I love you.’ I push him gently to his back and lean over him. Stare into his eyes. ‘I love you. Please don’t let go.’

‘I’ve got you. And I’m not letting go. Again. Please.’

‘I love you.’

He closes his eyes and whispers, ‘Again.’

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ he breathes.

‘I know,’ I say and he laughs, flipping me on to my back, lacing our fingers and pinning my hands.

‘Again.’

I stare into his eyes, a slight smile pulling at my mouth, and I see myself as he sees me. I feel loved, and scared, and hopeful. I feel found. And I think,
Here is the beginning of my faith
.
Here is my forever. Right here. Right here.

‘I love you, Reid.’

New York City – June

Sitting across from me, Emma’s eyes widen slightly, focused over my shoulder, and Graham coughs into his fist in a transparent attempt to conceal laughter.

I glance over my shoulder to see Cara and River emerging from the mouth of the hallway that leads to two bedrooms – Graham and Emma’s on one side, Cara’s on the other. Emma is still attending NYU, but she’s planning to postpone her fall semester for a role she just landed on Broadway, and she may or may not return next spring. When Graham is filming on location, Cara divides her time between the apartment and Graham’s parents, ten minutes away.

They were both more than excited to meet Dori and River, who flew into JFK last night. I have three more days of filming. Brooke left for Brisbane yesterday, but not before multiple confirmations of contact numbers and appointed Skype times.

‘No, walk like this.’ Hands on her hips, Cara strides forward – her feet echoing
thump thump thump
on the worn wood floor. A pink sheet, tied around her neck, billows out behind her, and rhinestones glint regally from the top of her head. Her expression grave, she turns to look back at River. ‘Now you try.’

Stepping into the room, adorned in a purple sheet, my son’s stride is not so forceful. Unlike Cara’s exaggerated stamping, the pads of his bare feet make no sound, and his gait is careful. I wonder again at genetics, and how Brooke and I could mesh genes and produce such an unobtrusive kid. And then I notice his head. More specifically, what’s
on
his head. Which explains Graham’s amusement.

‘Son of a
bitch
.’

My voice is muted, but Graham coughs once more to cover it, stifling another half-laugh. I’d really like to punch him, because somehow, some way, this is his fault. Dori places her soft hand on my forearm. My eyes jerk to hers. Dark and dancing with laughter, they almost convince me to laugh too. Almost.

‘Is my
son
–’ I inhale through my nose and keep my voice very low – ‘wearing a
tiara
?’

Hands raised in placation, Graham clears his throat, ‘Eh-eh,’ when I shoot him a direct glare.

‘Cara loves to play princess.’ Emma’s voice of reason pulls me from contemplations of violence. ‘She must have convinced River to be her prince.’

‘He’s not the prince, he’s the
king
,’ Cara chirps, drawing all eyes to her. Her hands clasped daintily in front of her,
she rolls big brown eyes and tilts her tiara-clad head at the four of us, like we’re all a little stupid. ‘He’s
carrying
the prince.’

Sure enough, in a hold that would be better suited for a football than a baby – which I’m kind of thrilled shitless about at the moment – my kid cradles a blanket-swathed baby doll in his arms. ‘Jesus Ch–’

Dori’s fingers slide across my arm, a gentle reminder to swallow my words, and I breathe an involuntary sigh. I’ll never understand how she does that with a single touch.

‘What’s the little prince’s name?’ Dori asks, and Cara turns to carefully take the doll from River, as though it’s made of glass and wouldn’t just bounce across the floor if one of them dropped it.

‘Well
I
wanted to name him Tristan or Edward.’

Cara frowns at her father when he chuckles again and Emma swats him, but Graham just pulls her closer and kisses her temple, and she settles into his embrace. ‘Those are very
princely
names,’ he assures his daughter.

‘Yeah …’ She rocks the bald-headed baby doll, the eyelids of which are closed because, I assume, it’s horizontal. ‘But we named him Reid, because River said princes get named after their grandfathers.’

Dori’s hand stills on my arm.

‘He said what?’ My words are thin, but they seem to echo across the loft.

She continues to stare at the doll. ‘Okay, really, he just said “Reid” when we were choosing a name, which is you, so it’s obvious that’s what he meant.’

‘He said, “Reid”?’ My voice is a whisper.

Cara nods, unaware of what it does to me that the boy who never speaks when he’s awake chose to utter
my name
, even if I didn’t hear it. Dori knows, though. Her eyes are glassy when I slide a look at her, and her beautiful face swims through tears I’d rather not shed in front of Graham and Emma.

River tugs the purple sheet behind him as he rounds the end of the sofa, his eyes on mine, puzzled and anxious. That’s the last thing I want him to feel.

I open my arms and he climbs into my lap, still staring. His eyes are such a stormy, serious blue. Wisps of wavy blond hair poke up and out from around the tiara. Every feature is small and vulnerable. He scares the absolute hell out of me. My feelings for him scare the absolute fucking hell out of me. And that’s how I know they’re right.

Drawing the purple sheet up to my shoulder, he leans closer and I fight the urge to crush him close, watching Dori over his head. Her tears are incompatible with her blissed-out grin, like rays of sun hitting the ground during a rainstorm. Silly, beautiful girl – wearing my ring, sharing my bed, accepting my child, my past and my future.

My son’s small finger touches the outer corner of my eye, releasing a tear.
Damn
. I know Graham and Emma are watching, but no matter how exposed I feel, I can’t move. I don’t breathe.

‘No cry, Daddy,’ he whispers, warm breath under my chin, his cheek against my heart.

And then everyone is wiping tears away, and Graham and
I look at each other in silent agreement that this moment is between the four of us and is going nowhere. Ever.

Cara takes River’s hand and tugs. ‘C’mon, River.’ Sliding off my lap, he allows himself to be led away, and none of us can contain our laughter when Cara murmurs, ‘That’s another thing you need to remember about families – sometimes everyone is just
weird
.’

My first thank you goes to my readers. Coming to the end of a series as a reader or a writer is simultaneously exhilarating and heartbreaking. I’ve enjoyed this journey so much, and I appreciate every reader who was in the trenches with me as I told Reid’s story. I’m grateful every single day for each one of you.

Thank you to my beta readers: Ami Keller and Robin Deeslie, who’ve given me indispensable feedback for five books running. You two are the most wonderful friends, and I miss seeing your faces every day. Thanks to my wonderful author friends who provided criticism and cheerleading as needed: Elizabeth Reyes, Tracey Garvis Graves, Colleen Hoover and Abbi Glines. Your advice is always constructive and gently given – and that is never taken for granted.

Thank you to the amazing team at Penguin UK, especially my editor, Alex Antscherl, and editorial manager, Samantha Mackintosh. I’ve never been so nervous handing a manuscript to anyone, and you both made it painless. Thank you for your guidance, patience, and faith in me, this book and this series. A special thanks to my agents, Lauren Abramo
and Kate McLennan, for keeping me calm while writing to someone else’s deadline for the first time. That was no mean feat, ladies.

This book required more research than any novel I’ve written before. (Except for that Viking romance I wrote when I was nineteen, which thank goodness no longer exists. But let’s not talk about that.) Much appreciation to the fantastic people who helped me get my CPS and adoption facts straight, gave personal tours of UC Berkeley, and answered texts at 2 a.m. about filming schedules: Carol Gardner, Holly Durham, Michele Bland, Marie Peterson (along with Ashley, Giana and Bryce) and Zachary Webber.

Thanks to my parents for your unceasing encouragement and love. Thanks to Keith, Hannah and Zach for the inspiration you provide and for your understanding of my constant distraction when on a writing deadline. And as always, thanks above all to Paul, who cares for me in more ways than I can count, who has faith in me when mine is non-existent, and who loves me no matter what.